


Meretricious (and a Happy New Year)

by Neurotoxia



Series: Nights of Christmas Past [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Family, Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Winter, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is supposed to be about love and family, but over the years, DI Lestrade learns that there is much more to it than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meretricious (and a Happy New Year)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 5th of December for the [221b Advent Calendar](http://221b-advent.livejournal.com/). It is the first piece of a five-part series called "Nights of Christmas Past". The next parts will follow soon, each focussing on a different character.
> 
> A thousand thanks goes out to [shiningskyline](http://shiningskyline.livejournal.com/) for britpicking and beta-reading the series. Also, I'm forever indebted to [prenombrelilas](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com/) for the endless advice, patience, and making this a better fic!

## **I.**

* * *

“Greg, if you don’t put that phone away right now, I’ll throw it out!”

Lestrade suspiciously eyed his wife who faced him with her arms crossed over her chest, ready to jump down his throat.

“Yes, sorry,” he murmured and pocketed his mobile. He had a hard time resisting to check it for emergency calls.

“Is it so intolerable for you to concentrate on your family for one evening?” she hissed, not wanting to alert the kids who were happily digging through a new box of Lego under the Tree. “It’s amazing your children still recognize you.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Lestrade was getting irritated. He hated it when his wife implied that he didn’t bother to come home at all or neglected his children.

The wine glass trembled in her hand. She was on the brink of fury. Lestrade recognized the signs. “Am I? You could barely be convinced to take Christmas off for the first time in years!”

“I just got promoted, Jess! I have to work my arse off to prove that they made the right choice. Crime doesn’t solve itself or have the decency to take a break over Christmas! If anything, it gets worse!”

Lestrade’s voice had raised at the end, enough for the girls to look up from their Lego. He and Jess gave them a tense smile which was satisfying enough for their daughters to go back to the small bricks and figures. At least Lestrade and his wife agreed on not letting the kids witness their arguments.

“Keep your voice down,” Jess growled. “Before, you had to work ‘your arse off’ to get a promotion and now it’s the same all over again! You were a workaholic when we met but the detective inspector job made it insufferable!”

God, how Lestrade hated this discussion. They always ran around in circles and yet the argument resurfaced every other week. Not to mention that Jess had a habit of turning him into the villain which was ironic seeing as their argument revolved around Lestrade being too keen on catching them.

“I didn’t hear you complaining about the increased salary that came with the DI promotion,” he shot back. If she fought dirty, so could he.

“That again! Yes, I’m sorry for caring about paid bills and all that rubbish, Greg. I know it’s not as exciting as _Life at the Met_ but at least one of us has to look after the mundane things.”

Exciting as life at the Met indeed. Lestrade wanted to snort in indignation at that comment. Ninety percent of the time he was buried under paperwork which Lestrade considered an obstruction of justice. He thought that if they spent more time with the actual crime rather than procedures, protocols, and paper trails, they would catch a lot more criminals.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Jess. I’m here. I took four days off and I’m spending them with you. But if more murders happen than the people on duty can handle today, I’ll be called in. I can’t just turn off my phone and pretend London’s gonna be fine tonight. You knew what you signed up for when we got married.”

Maybe he was being a bit harsh, but Lestrade couldn’t be bothered to be more diplomatic. Other detective inspectors, chief inspectors and higher ups might turn off their phones, but he wouldn’t be one of them. He was always ready to help -- it was simultaneously his greatest strength and weakness. His life was dedicated to fighting crime. Jess had known this all along, encouraged him, and had admired him for his passion and will to help people. But the support had cooled off over the last few years.

Why were they always arguing, even on Christmas? Lestrade took a swig of his beer, eyes fixed on his agitated wife. He had had better Christmases at the station eating Chinese takeaway with his colleagues. Although he would never admit to it -- it made him feel guilty. Lestrade would love to spend a cozy Christmas at home with his family but it hadn’t happened in years.

“Daddy, look! It’s Hogwarts!” his younger daughter exclaimed and tugged at his trouser leg.

Lestrade turned around and beamed at his excited girls “Oh wow, is Harry there, too?”

His daughters had a remarkable obsession with Harry Potter. Their rooms looked like something out of Diagon Alley and his oldest had been quite upset when no letter from Professor Dumbledore had been delivered via owl on her last birthday. His younger daughter had recently proclaimed her intention to resurrect Sirius Black and marry him. Lestrade found it quite endearing -- or at least more endearing than her last plan to run away with Lucius Malfoy.

“Yes! And Hermione, and Ron, and Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Snape, too! But the dungeons are hard to build,” they both complained, frowning.

“Alright, let me help you with these dungeons. Wouldn’t want you to be late for Potions class,” he smiled and got up from his chair at the table.

His wife seemed torn between yelling at him for abandoning the discussion or holding up the ‘no arguments in front of the kids’ rule. She put her glass down with more force than necessary and muttered that it was obvious why he didn’t work in conflict resolution, but in homicide: dead people didn’t talk back. Jess hurried out of the living room and Lestrade could hear the front door closing a minute later. He knew he was being a coward. Avoiding confrontations was one of his less than stellar characteristics. He knew he should go after her, apologize and make sure that he hadn’t just driven another nail in his marriage’s coffin. In the end, he didn’t hesitate too long before sitting down on the carpet with the girls who hadn’t noticed their missing mother yet. Building Hogwarts dungeons out of Lego bricks and getting to hunt a miniature Lord Voldemort through the house later was enough criminal activity on Christmas for him, despite what Jess thought. Even stepping on scattered Lego bricks during the night seemed much more compelling than discussing his idealism and his wife’s unhappiness with it. And stepping on Lego bricks was already one of his least favorite activities.

## **II.**

* * *

  
He wished he could have had another murder-free Christmas like last year, but his wish hadn’t been granted. Lestrade took a drag from a much needed cigarette. He had promised his wife just yesterday to cut back on the smoking, but Lestrade felt that he deserved one. Couldn’t the murderers wait for a few days and let him enjoy a Christmas that had been going fairly well?  
  
Lestrade winced at his own thoughts. There was a woman dead in a lift and he was complaining about not being able to finish his Christmas pudding. Less cynicism was another thing he had promised his wife, most likely in vain. A member of the forensics team, Anderson, darted around the corner.  
  
“Anything new?” Lestrade asked and threw the fag butt in the gutter in front of the building.  
  
Anderson fidgeted uncomfortably and shook his head. “No. We haven’t found anything yet.”  
  
“How is that possible? The woman just dropped dead in the lift with a stab wound in her chest, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Lestrade wanted to throw his hands into the air or kick the bins next to him. He knew it wasn’t fair to snap at Anderson but he was utterly frustrated. A woman got into the lift alone on the 40th floor and arrived dead on the ground floor with a stab wound, still alone and the lift hadn’t stopped in between. They had been at it for hours with no explanation or noteworthy evidence. And it was bloody Christmas, for God’s sake!  
  
“Sorry, sir.”  
  
“Scotland Yard is being as useless as usual, I presume?”  
  
At the sound of the drawled voice behind him, Lestrade spun around to find the last person he wanted to see today: Sherlock Holmes. Had he been a serial killer in his previous life to deserve this? On his other side, Anderson had visibly tensed up and then fled back inside.  
  
Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the tall man before him. “What the hell do you want?”  
  
“Doing the work you lot obviously cannot,” Holmes said in his most condescending tone.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was tall and extremely pale, his skin showed a gray undertone, making him look ill in the pallid street light. The black circles under his eyes and the mussed hair only served to underline the air of illness around him. His trousers and shirt were too loose and didn’t look cared for, neither did the coat that hung open in the frigid air. Upon seeing anyone else like this, Lestrade would have been shocked, but on this particular young man it was sadly normal. It had been Lestrade himself who had arrested Sherlock Holmes for possession of cocaine two years ago and had been left dumbfounded with an accurate description of Lestrade’s lunch and argument with his brother on the phone. Ever since, he couldn’t get rid of him. Sherlock Holmes was a genius with an obsession with crime who managed to solve cases in the blink of an eye. But he was a rude bastard with an addiction to cocaine as well.  
  
“No access to crime scenes. Especially not when you’re high. And don’t try to tell me otherwise, I know the pupils of a junkie that just shot up. ” Lestrade’s tone was harsh and cutting; nothing else showed any effect on Sherlock who narrowed his eyes and huffed at being called out.  
  
“You’re out of your depth,” Sherlock Holmes hissed, clearly agitated.  
  
Lestrade crossed his arms, taking a defensive stance with his chin high and his spine straight. He was not going to back down. “I’d rather have a dead-end case on my desk than a junkie rampaging on the crime scene and insulting my entire team. No access when you’re high, understood?”  
  
For a split second, and Lestrade wasn’t sure if he had really seen it, Sherlock Holmes looked defeated and terribly young. Then, all walls came back up and there was only menace left.  
  
“Good luck with your dead-end case then.” Holmes’ tone was as chilly as the air outside as he turned to leave, probably to shoot up again or doing something similarly stupid.  
  
“Hang on. I’m going to get a coffee at the shop around the corner and you look like you could use one, too. And maybe -- _maybe-_ \- then I will tell you what we’re working on. Still no access though.”  
  
Lestrade stuffed his hand into the pockets of his coat and walked ahead. Sherlock seemed to think about it for a second before he gritted his teeth and followed him. “Fine, lead the way.”  
  
If he could keep Sherlock Holmes from shooting more drugs into his veins today with a description of the case, then maybe something good could come of this day.

##  **III.**

* * *

  
Lestrade waited outside the entrance closest to the morgue, smoking a cigarette. His wife would be furious if she knew, but furious seemed to be her default mood anyway. Whatever hope he’d once had left for his marriage had been squashed offhandedly by Sherlock earlier. He had suspected that she might be having another affair and Sherlock had given him proof enough with his deduction. A consulting detective never just guessed.  
  
That he had jumped at the chance to spend the day somewhere else as soon as John had issued the invitation told him all he needed to know about his marriage. And it hadn’t even occurred to him to maybe bring his wife, too.  
  
John’s and Sherlock’s Christmas party had been more enjoyable than Christmas with his family for the last few years. That included the fact the party was dissolved early because of some woman’s dead body. Sad state of a marriage indeed.  
  
“Jesus, this is depressing. What am I even doing here?” he mumbled to himself, throwing the half-smoked cigarette into the next bin in annoyance.  
  
He was camping outside St Bartholomew’s, his coat wrapped around himself. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. At home, he could get some tea and watch Christmassy nonsense on the telly -- yet for some reason this was not a particularly appealing prospect tonight.  
  
Lestrade sighed and leaned against the wall behind him, peering through the glass doors. Fortunately, it wasn’t very busy and he easily kept track of those going in and out until he spotted the person he had been looking for.  
  
And it wasn’t an annoying git in a dramatic coat. Lestrade pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps.  
  
“Hi, Molly.”  
  
Molly Hooper’s eyes shot up from her mobile phone to Lestrade, brows risen in surprise and her mouth forming a silent oh.  
  
“Oh, Detective Inspector. Hi...uhm. Are you here for the body, too?” she asked. Lestrade noticed that she looked confused and melancholic. The dress she had been wearing earlier --the one which Lestrade had been eyeing more closely than was acceptable for a married man-- had been exchanged for a jumper and jeans. He still thought she looked nice.  
  
“No, I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.” _Liar_. He had already been halfway home. “Since the party ended so suddenly...”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Molly said, still looking confused, and Lestrade could hardly blame her. He wasn’t exactly explaining himself well here.  
  
“Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?”  
  
Molly shook her head and concentrated on watching her shoes. “No, maybe I’ll watch a bit of TV, just me and my cat. I’m going to visit my mother tomorrow.” Then, as an afterthought, she added: “Why?”  
  
“Well, I have the evening to myself, too. Thought about grabbing a bite somewhere and not doing it alone is always better. Maybe you’d care to join me?” Now Lestrade looked at his shoes, hoping it hadn’t sounded like a come-on.  
  
Molly’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me?”  
  
“Well, I’m definitely not asking the lamp post,” Lestrade smiled and Molly eyed the street light next to her, apparently contemplating the idea for a few seconds before her face lit up.  
  
“That’d be nice, Detective Inspector,” she said and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
“Call me Greg,” he offered. “I know a nice Indian place just a few streets away.”  
  
He’ll be damned if both of them didn’t deserve at least one decent day this Christmas.

##  **IV.**

* * *

  
Lestrade wasn’t used to silence. He found it unsettling over long periods of time, just like he was right now. A few hours ago, he had come back from a Christmas visit with his parents who lived two hours outside London. The visit had been nice for the most part if he set aside the remarks about his failed marriage. His parents liked his soon-to-be ex-wife. His mother in particular had been crushed when she heard about them splitting up. Never mind that his wife had cheated on him, his mother blamed him and his job.  
  
Lestrade frowned at the old Bond rerun on television and sipped his tea. He didn’t like thinking about the divorce, it put him on edge -- settlements and division of their possessions, custody agreements, the house -- nothing went smoothly. Lestrade wasn’t feeling generous towards his unfaithful spouse who in turn felt motivated to strip him of everything that wasn’t undeniably his alone. Seeing her tomorrow to pick up the kids was going to be a minefield. All in all, this Christmas felt a little half-hearted and lacklustre.  
  
Last year’s Christmas with a small party, a cancelled holiday with his wife and a dinner at a restaurant with someone he only really knew through work had been much better. He wasn’t sure how that reflected on his current state of affairs, but he didn’t like dwelling on last Christmas anyway. Too much Sherlock and too many regrets and even more guilt to haunt him. More than once over the last months, Lestrade had caught himself reaching for his phone to ask Sherlock about something or to invite him to a crime scene, only to remember that he couldn’t.  
  
Shouldn’t he have stood up more for Sherlock? Lestrade had never been convinced that Sherlock had a hand in the kidnappings or any other crimes before that. No court would have convicted Sherlock, there was no evidence connecting him to the crimes. Guilt kept gnawing at him -- he shouldn’t have let Sherlock and John run from their arrest. John as a hostage had been ridiculous, and Sherlock would have never shot John or any of Lestrade’s team members. He had let them get away and that had indirectly led to Sherlock throwing himself off a roof.

* * *

_“A fraud -- Sherlock, a fraud! His last words and the idiot was lying through his teeth,” John said to him, voice caught between anger and bone-deep sadness while he slammed his pint on the table._

_“He was nothing less than a genius. Knew things he could never have researched beforehand,” Lestrade had agreed, his voice far more subdued. “Sherlock couldn’t have known that I would arrest him and yet he told me what I had for lunch and that I got into an argument over money with my brother earlier that day.”_

_“My point exactly. I just wish I knew why he wanted to convince me so badly.” John sighed and shook his head. He was strong, but Lestrade sometimes caught him looking very small and lost._

* * *

Lestrade was more than glad not to have lost John as a friend. John had nearly punched him at Bart’s while he had raged at him and his team. Lestrade still thought he deserved it, but John had threatened him that he would really punch him if he didn’t stop beating himself up over it. Although John wasn’t one to talk -- he accumulated far more guilt over it than all of them combined; and he was the last to blame for anything.

“Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous”, Lestrade swore and picked up his mobile. If he stewed any more in his own black mood, he’d go mad.

>   To: John Watson -- 25/12 20:51  
>    Up for a pint? I’m driving myself up the wall.

>   From: John Watson -- 25/12 20:52  
>    Absolutely. My sister and parents are doing the same to me. Usual waterhole in 30. JW

Lestrade snorted, got up and collected his keys and wallet. It seemed he wasn’t the only one in need of a friend instead of family. Just when he was about to head out of the door, his phone chimed again.

>   From: John Watson -- 25/12 20:56  
>    Meretricious, Greg. JW

The message tugged at his heartstrings -- that stupid joke he had made during the case with the dead security guard. It had stuck with him and John. Last year, Lestrade had sent it to John instead of a _Merry Christmas_ and gotten a reply from Sherlock instead that they were being ridiculous. Lestrade broke into a small smile; it was a good memory -- John himself had just said a while back that it was important to remember the good times. The landlady aside, the two of them were the only ones who could share fond memories of Sherlock Holmes; maybe they needed it to start healing.

On the way to his car, Lestrade typed out his reply:

>  To: John Watson -- 25/12 20:58  
>    ...and a happy new year.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Knitting Lives Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591956) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)




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